by R. L. Naquin
He stared at his hands in his lap. “No. Just Nick.”
It was then that I realized Just Nick was wearing a pair of blue Bermuda shorts. I stole looks at him while I drove, noting the clean fingernails, the shaven jawline, and the tidy haircut.
A freak among satyrs. I approved.
“I’m Zoey.” I pointed a thumb over my shoulder. “That’s Maurice.”
Maurice grumbled from the backseat. “Can somebody please explain why I have to crumple myself up in the backseat to avoid being seen, but the guy with the big ram horns is okay to ride in the front?”
Well, shit. I hadn’t thought of that, and we were coming up on a main road. “You’re right. I think I’ve got a hoodie on the floor back there.”
Maurice dug around and found my pink hooded fleece wedged under the passenger seat and passed it forward. Nick gave me a doubtful look, then put it on, easing the hood up over his horns. Between his larger build and the protrusions from his forehead, my shirt would never be the same, all stretched out and weird.
I really needed to think about getting that bigger car with tinted windows.
“So, Just Nick,” I said. “What’s your plan?”
He grinned. “I’m going to meet my daughter. And then I’m going to go get my girl.”
I nodded. “Finally we’re getting somewhere. I like your plan very much, Just Nick.”
Looked like maybe I hadn’t screwed up so bad after all.
When we pulled into the driveway, Nick was out of the car so fast, we hadn’t even come to a complete stop yet. Maurice untangled himself from the backseat, and we followed Nick up the front steps. I opened the door for him, and he hesitated, peering into the living room.
“Go on,” I said. “We’re right behind you.”
His cloven hooves clopped softly on the hardwood floor, and I shut the door.
Phil stood in the dim light, cradling the baby in his arms. One of her tiny hands had escaped the blanket and patted at the rocky surface of his face making soft slaps.
Nick didn’t move, his eyes a little misty.
I touched his pink sleeve. “Would you like to hold her?”
He nodded and shrugged off my hoodie. His jaw worked, as if trying to form words, but none came out. He stepped forward with his hands out, and Phil placed the baby in her father’s arms.
The faun’s grin lit up the entire room. “Hi, Fern,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper, and he leaned in to nuzzle her face. “She has horns.” He looked at me, eyes wide. “She has my horns.”
At home, I didn’t keep my emotional walls as strong or focused as I did in the outside world. It was a habit to lower them a bit as I came up the driveway. As a result, Nick’s outpouring of love and happiness at first contact with his child washed over me in a warm rush. The swelling of emotions cradled me with affection and pride, and my eyes welled up. My own father’s love had felt like this in the years before he died.
I reached forward and pulled the blanket aside to show him her furry legs. They kicked out, and she gurgled, delighted at the freedom.
Maurice laughed. “Fern. Perfect. Now we can stop calling her the baby.”
After a few minutes of pure magic between daddy and baby, Fern’s fussing started up again.
“Minor incident in Flapjack Waffletown,” Phil said, his face apologetic.
I raised an eyebrow and looked at Maurice for a translation.
“He couldn’t change her diaper or feed her while we were gone,” he said. “She’s probably wet and hungry by now.”
“Ah.” I reached to take her. I was now an expert at such things, despite my extreme ineptitude the day before. Practice makes perfect.
“No, let me,” Nick said. “It’s my job.”
He changed her with none of the awkwardness I’d shown on my first try, and when Maurice handed him a fresh bottle, he went straight outside to feed her.
“Great,” I said. “We couldn’t figure it out for a whole day, and he knew all along.”
Phil eyed us both and crossed his arms. “Can you play kickball in the microwave?”
Maurice cast his gaze at his feet, his face stoic. “I’d rather not talk about it, Phil. The mountain isn’t safe. Let’s just leave it at that.”
No, the mountain wasn’t safe. But the most terrifying part had come home with me. Phil gave me a questioning glance, and I looked away. I didn’t want to talk about it any more than Maurice did. I wasn’t sure how we would get past this thing he’d revealed. He was my friend. My good friend. He’d saved my life, cleaned up after me, cooked for me, and held me when I was afraid. I didn’t want him to be the thing I was afraid of. I didn’t want him to know I wanted to sleep with the lights on for a while.
I would get over it. Time would work it out. In the meantime, I couldn’t let Maurice know how uncomfortable I was. Soft wisps of shame rose from him and spread through the room. Would he leave because I’d seen a side of him he never wanted to show? Had anything truly changed? He was still my Maurice. It was up to me to show him we were okay. I didn’t want to lose him.
I put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze. “I could really use a drink. How about you?”
His head came up. “A drink would be nice.” He smiled at me. It was weak, but it was a start.
Phil shook his head. “I want Charles in charge of me.”
~*~
This time, Iris didn’t try to fight me. When the three of us—me, Maurice and Nick, plus Fern—showed up in the woods, he took us straight to the crazy tree lady. She pretended not to notice us, at first, and continued to dig in the dirt, dropping seeds into the holes.
We waited. I had all the time in the world as far as this bitch was concerned. Five minutes, ten—she was methodical in her seed sowing. As she worked her way around the clearing, it became more of a challenge for her to keep us at her back.
Fern gurgled and crazy tree lady’s head snapped up. She scowled at me. “I told you not to bring that thing back here.”
I shrugged. “I don’t listen very well.”
Her eyes slid over Nick, and her mouth curled in a crooked line as if she’d tasted something especially rancid. She spat on the ground in the direction of his feet. Where the spittle had landed, a seedling pushed its head from the earth, and in motion-capture glory, rose to full height, formed a bud, and unfurled the petals of a small daisy.
Really hard to keep a straight face when somebody makes a rude gesture and flowers pop up. I would have said so, but I didn’t have the chance.
Nick stepped forward, his arms in a protective shield around his daughter. He brought his face within inches of the old crone’s. “She’s not a thing. She’s your granddaughter. You don’t have to like me, but you won’t ever hurt her.” He took a step back, but he kept up his threatening glare. “Where’s Mari?”
The woman sniffed and tried to turn away. “Marigold is not your concern. Leave.”
Nick grabbed the woman’s arm and held her in place. “I’m not playing with you. I don’t care what you think of me or my people, I’m not leaving until my family is together.”
She shrugged him off, her face cold. “So be it. You want to stay? Then stay.”
She waved her arms around her head, and the trees lining the clearing us shuddered. Green fire oozed from the tips of her fingers and into the ground under Nick. Small roots took hold of his hooves.
Nick’s eyes went wide with panic. He tried to pull free, but for every root he snapped, two more took its place. “Zoey, take Fern. Please! Don’t let her get swallowed up with me!”
I grabbed the baby, and Maurice and I each took one of Nick’s arms, trying to tug him free. The growths had already twined their way halfway up his calves.
From somewhere outside the clearing, a shrill scream split the air. “No!”
A cloud of silken green hair flew from the trees and rushed the old woman. The two dryads toppled to the ground, knocking the wind out of each other. They were a blu
r of browns and greens and elbows and knees, rolling in the grass and leaves.
Roots continued to climb the satyr’s body, and I could hear his labored breathing as the tendrils wrapped around his chest.
The women scrabbled in the dirt, shouting incoherent words, biting and scratching.
“We don’t have time for this,” I said. I let go of poor, strangling Nick and shoved the baby at Iris. Maurice and I yanked the women apart.
The crone stood panting and swatting at the hand I’d fixed on her upper arm. Marigold shook loose from Maurice’s grasp and glowered at the other woman. “Let him go, Mother.”
Nick’s breath sounded raspy and weak.
“You’d better hurry,” I said. “He’s only got a minute or two.” Maurice and I returned to the satyr and worked at loosening the roots. They weren’t going anywhere.
Mari’s eyes brimmed with tears. “You’re killing him, Mother!”
The old lady shrugged. “It’s your own fault. Next time you’ll do as you’re told.”
Nick gasped and his head lolled backward. Mari narrowed her eyes at her mother. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Her arms shot up, and the trees and bushes rustled with life. Eyes blinked from the darkness. I stepped closer to Maurice.
A wild boar trotted out of the trees, its sharp tusks and pink eyes both aimed at the old woman. From behind us, two coyotes and a wolf entered the clearing, trotted past us, and joined the boar. A mountain lion boxed the woman in on the other side.
Her face lost its nut-brown color, becoming ashen.
Marigold the dryad stood firm. “Let him go, Mother. I won’t ask again.”
Mari’s mother opened her mouth to object, and the animals snorted, grunted, and howled as they drew closer. Her mouth snapped shut. Defeated, the older dryad waved her arm in Nick’s general direction. The roots let go, and Maurice and I grabbed him before he fell. We eased him to the ground, giving him room to regain his breath.
Mari was by his side in an instant, smoothing his hair and repeating his name again and again, as if it were a mantra.
He smiled up at her. “I’m okay.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “We’re okay.”
I tore my eyes from the reunion and glanced over at Mari’s mother. She squatted in the dirt, watching the couple. The animals must have determined for themselves she was no longer a threat, and one by one they disappeared into the foliage.
Mari helped Nick stand, and they both turned to face Iris. The skunk-ape, clearly uncomfortable with the infant I’d fobbed off on him, handed Fern over to her mother.
The love I’d felt earlier from Nick had been a taster of the total package. With the entire family united, love exploded through the clearing like a clap of thunder.
Birds sang, flowers bloomed, leaves sprouted from bare branches. My knees went weak with it, and I was forced to sit while we all bathed in the very real glow of a family reunited.
Mari’s mother rose from her stooped position. She looked a little puzzled, but a smile touched her lips. Her eyes met mine, she nodded once, then disappeared into the woods.
Maurice helped me up, and we gave a last look at the new family. Mari and Nick cooed over their beautiful girl, and Fern giggled at them, her green hair in full, glorious bloom.
We didn’t say goodbye. They needed time together, and they knew where to find us. Iris led us out of the woods and chuffed in satisfaction.
I swatted at his furry arm. “Don’t act like you fixed this. I had to force you to help.”
He snorted and left us at the edge of my property.
Maurice and I trudged together toward the house.
“You did a good thing, Zoey,” he said.
“We did a good thing.”
He shrugged. “I nearly wrecked everything.”
“No. You saved me. As usual.” I so didn’t want to have this talk. I wanted the awkwardness and fear to go away on their own.
“I never wanted for you see me like that.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want you to think of me as a monster.”
“I didn’t want you to see me eat half a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough after my horrible date with Riley, but you saw it.”
“It’s not the same thing.” He ducked his head and stuffed his hands inside his pockets.
I stopped him and made him look me square in the eyes. “It is the same thing. Friends see each other at their worst, and love each other anyway. This transmonstrification thing is part of you. Friends accept each other as they are.” I was desperate for that to be true. I was reassuring Maurice, but who would reassure me?
We continued walking toward the house. It was getting dark, and we could see Phil had every light blazing to guide us home.
I stopped again. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Do you hear…is that Bon Jovi?”
Maurice beamed at me. “Yes! Karaoke tonight!”
“No.”
His grin expanded three sizes. “Oh, yes. You. Me. ‘Islands in the Stream.’” He winked at me. “It’ll be epic.”
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and dragged my feet toward home, muttering under my breath. “Lots and lots of alcohol.”
“Prune Juice Sestina”
My editor really, really wanted me to include this bit of weirdness. I gave in.
In case you’re not familiar, a sestina is a fixed verse form, six stanzas of six lines each, followed by a three-line stanza. The same six words are used at the end of the lines in each stanza, but the position of those words has to be different in each stanza—sort of like poetic Sudoku. The final, three-line stanza also uses those same six words, two per line.
When I learned that such a horrendous thing existed, it pissed me off. I know. Totally irrational reaction to a form of poetry. Once I got over my anger that someone would actually make something like this up, I decided to write one as penance for my behavior. I used a spreadsheet to get the word positions right. Seriously.
It’s highly unlikely I will ever write a sestina again, but at least this one gave me the opportunity to rant about a conspiracy theory I’ve been suspicious of for over twenty years.
Like an old woman, wrinkled and sweet,
filled with wisdom and concern for your health,
a prune, newly dried in the sun,
hides within its shriveled skin, a secret.
Packed with nutrients and all that is good,
it cleans your pipes and wards against evil.
To misuse this simple gift would be a thing of evil.
We never wonder what is in our glass of sweet
prune juice. You might think it vile or think it good,
but no one doubts its benefit to their health.
Question it they should, for the juice is a secret
spirited away by the rays of the sun.
When the juice of a grape is stolen by the sun,
an offering of a glass of raisin juice would be evil,
for the liquid is hidden in the heavens, evermore kept secret.
Someone, somewhere, thought it might be sweet
to create a mystery concoction for our health,
and trick us into believing it is for our own good.
Thick and viscous, how anyone can think it’s good
is a mystery passed down from father to son.
We wander the grocery, thinking of our health,
never suspecting on aisle twelve lurks a tremendous evil.
Only dreaming of how it would be sweet
to rid ourselves of the buildup we must keep secret.
That the elderly drink the most prune juice is no secret.
Old people die every day, leaving this world for good.
A coincidence? No! A foul smelling plot that’s made to smell sweet.
All the warnings they give, (eat less fat, exercise, stay out of the sun,)
are merely diversions meant to trick us into falling for this
evil,
designed to undermine our health.
We reach for anything that boasts improved health,
but the origins of prune juice are mysterious and secret.
Ignorance and complacency are a tremendous evil.
They give us false hope and conceal what is good.
Storm the supermarket, expose the conspiracy to the sun!
Demand to be heard, let the truth ring sweet!
For the good of your grandmother, preserve her failing health.
Find her secret stash and destroy the looming evil.
She has always been sweet and deserves more days in the sun.
###
About R.L. Naquin
Rachel writes stories that drop average people into magical situations filled with heart and quirky humor.
She believes in pixie dust, the power of love, good cheese, lucky socks, and putting things off until the last minute. Her home is Disneyland, despite her current location in Kansas. Rachel has one husband, two grown kids, and a crazy-catlady starter kit.
Hang out with her online:
Web: www.rlnaquin.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/rlnaquin
Twitter: www.twitter.com/rlnaquin
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Other Works by R.L. Naquin
The Monster Haven Series
published by Carina Press
Monster in My Closet, Book 1
Pooka in My Pantry, Book 2
Fairies in My Fireplace, Book 3
Golem in My Glovebox, Book 4
Demons in My Driveway, Book 5
Phoenix in My Fortune, Book 6
Additional Copyrights
The poems “Baked Goods,” “Cast Off,” and “Prune Juice Sestina” were previously published in the 2008 literary annual Inscape.
“How Greg’s Chupacabra Became a Small Town Legend and Ended Up Between the Wooden Eye and the Wig Collection at the Caney Valley Historical Society” and “Cosmic Lasagna” were respectively published in the September 2010 and Fall 2010 Returning Contributors issues of Seahorse Rodeo Folk Review.